We wander on through life as pilgrims do
O'er trackless deserts to a distant shrine,
Weary and parch'd, and to our longing view
Springs many a false mirage of joy divine,
That fades before us as we fain pursue
The empty picture which our fancy drew.
O thou, my heart! seek not the empty shows
And gilded nothings of this little Time,
But let thine endless effort be to climb
Above Earth's petty vanities and woes
Unto a nobler range of feelings, joys,
Which no false leaven of decay alloys,
But whose substantial sweetness may increase,
And make thy journey pleasure, and thy slumber peace.